


Four Scenes From a Secret War

by Wreckage



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Doctor/Patient, M/M, Non-Graphic Violence, Revolutionaries
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-14
Updated: 2013-06-18
Packaged: 2017-12-15 00:27:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/843199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wreckage/pseuds/Wreckage
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's a cabin in the woods where the resistance have always been, regardless of its fluctuating numbers.<br/>There is an operating table on which magic is performed under the strictest of control.<br/>And there are those who would change the world at any price.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Scene 1

**Author's Note:**

> My mother and I went up the mountain last weekend, so naturally I felt compelled to write an AU with robots.  
> Enjoy.

1.

The forest reminds Merlin of how fast time works away at everything. It's astonishing how new paths seem to be accepted by the landscape, natural pauses in the vegetation snaking their way from the cabin back to civilisation. Already, the path he treads looks like it has belonged there for a decade, when in fact he and Gaius only started walking this way a couple of weeks ago. Some places it seems that nature is resisting; the groove that has been trodden into place has been filled with water, and a bog seems to be forming, causing the need to make several careful hops. He still manages to soak his shoes every other try, clumsy as he is. 

By contrast, the path that they have only just abandoned after the scare that day when Merlin is convinced he was spotted, has already started to grow over. That path has been in use for as long as Merlin has been alive. It's sobering to see how years and years of convention just flicker away like that. No matter how long it's been used, no matter how many people knew that path as the main route to the cabin - and back in the day, there were many people doing this work - the path still fades. Merlin and Gaius are the only ones left who remember it, and they don't know half its stories. Regardless, the path's only existence will soon be in their minds. They are the only ones left.

 

But it can't be impossible to leave a mark in time. Merlin has found paths in the forests many times that seem permanent in different ways. The most fascinating is coming across an ancient game trail, which happens once in a while. It's never a whole path, from one location to the next, always a few yards of trail have remained while other parts have faded. They seem to appear out of nowhere, a reminder that there has been life in these hills for a long, long time. 

 

Other more lasting marks do not remind him of anything of the sort. The paths made by the machines, for instance, don't go away. Wherever they have been, even if they've only been there once and that was years ago, the grass doesn't grow as lushly it does in other places, and it seems to always be yellowed and near death. The moss is dry. It is as if life wants nothing to do with the marks left by dead things. Dead things that Merlin could seize control of, or even eradicate, had it been within prudence and not just within his power.

 

"It's like science fiction," Gaius says, and maybe that is what it looks like to him. He is of a different generation, he remembers a different world, because most of the major changes that have happened have occurred in the last couple of decades. Merlin has never read science fiction. It is not the sort of thing he'd devote his time to, since his time is quite rare and precious. Still he feels the need to argue with his uncle.

"It's not science fiction," he insists, "For one thing, it is all real. And science fiction is based within scientific possibilities, isn't it?" That wasn't really a question. He may not be a fan of the genre, but he knows its definition. "Science would never be able to do these things on its own. Everything we have relies on magic, whether the general public chooses to recognise that or not."

They don't have that choice, of course.

 

Therein lies the problem.


	2. Scene 2

 

2.

It's not always easy to tell whether it's raining or not. The sky is always grey, so the light that illuminates Merlin's modest abode never changes except when the evening comes and he has to switch his lightbulb on. Frequently, the darkness beats him in the race to get to his flat, and it's there waiting when he gets home from work. On those days, he sometimes doesn't bother switching on the light, and stumbles the small path that his feet has memorised over to his bed and sleeps there, undisturbed by any and all noise.

 

Now, the bed is occupied by someone else. Merlin has already gotten up, leaving the comforting blanket warmed by shared body heat for the cold air of the rest of the room. His feet tread gingerly on the cracked wooden floor; they are bare, and he wouldn't appreciate splinters. A chill sends his bare skin into goosebumps, but on his way to the dresser, he might as well find out whether it's raining or not.

 

Drops of filthy water run down the window glass and pool at the bottom. But it isn't raining, if he judges the glum cityscape beyond his walls correctly. Other buildings seem dry, there's nothing falling through the air. The water must stem from upstairs, maybe someone is washing a window, or maybe there's a leak. The latter is more than probable. The world outside is moving, a dull, mechanical movement with no other meaning than the purpose it seeks to achieve. One large leg of machinery moves past, and thunders into the pavement one block along from Merlin's building. The walls of the flat shake. They aren't really supposed to tremble with each impact like this. The hydraulics must be shot again. He could have a look at it, he supposes, but this is his first morning off for a man's age, and the thought of spending it mending the building makes him want to take a hammer to his temple in sheer exhaustion. Still, he might get his rent adjusted downwards if he argues well with the landlord. He pays an extortionate amount to reside in this flat, one room serving as kitchen, bedroom and living space, with a tiny bathroom, no security to speak of, and hydraulics, hot water and heating systems that only work every other Tuesday. The building gives another ominous shudder, as if it might crumble at any moment. It won't. It's sturdier than it looks. Merlin turns to the body in the bed to see if the man has woken.

 

He hasn't. He is still sleeping like a babe, exactly as he was moments ago, when Merlin's internal alarm clock coaxed him out of bed to try and actually catch sight of the morning before it runs away on him. The sleeper's hair is a mess of gold. It really _is_ as soft as it looks, Merlin remembers. He is exceedingly good looking, this man. His thin lips are smiling slightly in his sleep, and if his eyes were open, they would smile, too. That was what first made Merlin's breath catch, helped along by his strong jaw and nose. His features are even and smooth, as if he had just come off the conveyor belt of a factory for beauty. There is no such thing, of course. Merlin knows better than anyone that they're not allowed to make beautiful things.

 

Well. Not really. This might be an exception, though.

 

The man is one of Merlin's patients. Medicine was never a discipline he planned to get into, but increasingly it mixes with the magic and mechanics that he has specialised in all his life. He never gets to know who his patients are when they are brought in. He does his best to fix whatever is wrong, and then sends them back on their way. Most of them don't say a word, just lie there with stony faces, emitting no sound but grunts of pain. Not like this one. He introduced himself as Arthur, in a polite, refined voice, and he kept his smile even as he gritted his teeth through the pain of his injuries. And they were quite serious injuries. As it is, most of the back of Arthur's legs is Merlin's work, where something had apparently torn them open. How he even stayed conscious at that point is beyond comprehension. It took effort to rebuild nerves and tissue and blood vessels with strings, metal, plastic, silicone and a whole lot of magic. 

 

They kept chatting during the procedure, and things moved on from there as if it were completely natural. Madness.

As Arthur stirs, Merlin feels a small dose of panic shoot through him. What will he think of the tiny abode? The smell of oil, the cockroaches? He never revealed his last name, but he hasn't fooled Merlin. His voice, accent, mannerisms, and the very reluctance itself when contrasted with how _very_ open he was otherwise, have pretty much confirmed him as someone belonging in a very different world, in a very different part of society. How a rich boy ended up with those injuries is a mystery in itself, but right now Merlin worries more about whether, in the light of day, Arthur will have changed his mind about the decision to get off with a lowly worker from one of Uther Pendragon's tech facilities.

 

And he worries about himself when he realised he actually _cares_ about that. A lot.


	3. Scene 3

3.

Arthur's bed is very large. It is very soft, and abundantly stocked with pillows. As he wakes up in the dead of night, the expanse of sheets seems like a barren, intimidating wasteland. Normally, it's not like this. Normally, he likes the space, even when he has company here. It is not something he is proud of, but his gentlemanliness is not as permanent as perhaps it should be. He has trouble sleeping next to someone he doesn't trust, and he has trouble trusting anyone at all. In such a large bed, rolling to the side and pretending he's alone is easier, and it does make the inevitable rejection in the morning easier, too. Or, it did. In reality, none of that seems to be true anymore. All of it has changed now that he's met Merlin.

 

The fact that his bed is too big is not the only thing that is different. He cannot view anything in his life the same way with all the things he knows now. He has, because his father is grooming him to take over the company that controls most aspects of society, always known more about magic than most people. But there is so much Uther never told him. About how magic really works, about how much more there is to it. He has always addressed the topic with fear, and so Arthur feared, but now he doesn't feel fear anymore when he thinks of magic. He feels awe and guilt and anger, for all that he has done, and all that his father has done, for all that never happened even though it should have, for all he could have done had he known before, for all that _Merlin_ could have done if it hadn't been for the Pendragon Corporation. All Merlin could have been, and not just to him.

 

He knows now why he has to work so hard defending his father's facilities. It has nothing to do with industrial espionage, nor is he fighting evil. His father has told him of the danger of magic, of how it corrupts the mind and the soul, and he has seen proof in the madness and violence of the sorcerers he has faced, the viciousness of their fight, and of the creatures they create. Lies, all of it. Who knows how many of the foes he has vanquished were not deranged, but desperate? Did not seek destruction, but freedom? So many of Merlin's stories about friends he has lost in the secret war sound familiar to him, and it makes him sick to his stomach when he has to put a name to each of the faces of the people he has fought, defeated, killed. He never knew what a murderer he really was. 

 

Uther discovered the secrets of magic and used them to create his empire, but no magic is allowed that is not controlled by Uther. Arthur found it hard to believe the ways his father has oppressed the lower classes in general and the sorcerers in particular, but he has seen the proof. Uther is not only powerful, he is afraid. He fears losing the upper hand, he fears vengeance wreaked after years of enslavement.

 

If he finds out about Merlin…

 

And that's why it hurts to wake up now, in the middle of the night, to find himself in his massive bed. That's why he panics when he cannot feel Merlin beside him. He sits up, locates him, and scrambles over to the other side of the bed with desperation. He wraps his arms tightly around the bony frame of his lover, not caring that it might wake him up. He holds on as if he'd die letting go, and sometimes it feels like it. He is so wrapped up in the overwhelming sense of loving and _having_ , and the fear of losing what he has. He is terrified of waking up alone, without Merlin there in his room, but at the same time he knows that it's a very unsafe place for him to be. If he were found in this house, Uther would ask questions. Uther would investigate. And that could very well lead to disaster.

 

He won't let it happen. He won't lose someone who has given him so much, whom he loves so deeply, and who loves him back in spite of all he has done.

 

When Merlin twists his head and looks at him with sleepy eyes, he smiles a little and seems confused, and Arthur kisses the side of his jaw before they both sink back into sleep.


	4. Scene 4

4.

As he's lying there on his back, looking up, all he can think is that the forest is beautiful. 

 

Arthur is struck by how very little he has seen of nature in his lifetime. When he was younger, he would accompany his father to resorts with green grass covering vast lawns, tall, beautiful hedges with leaves and sweetly smelling flowers, and even a forest full of tall, graceful trees. He never realised how far it was from reality, and how far the serenity of that garden was from a _real_ forest, and _real_ beauty. Real grass, it seems, grows wildly in tussocks on a bumpy landscape, with paths twisting through it that are seemingly random and almost invisible, part of the ground itself rather than neatly laid down on top with tiles and gravel. Real flowers are not huge and impressive and fragrant, they are small, beautiful, fragile things that poke their heads out from unexpected places, white or yellow stars appearing in between the grass and straw. Some places the ground is covered with them, the path being the only part of the landscape not littered with bright petal crowns. And trees, oh, the trees. They are not straight, ordered and elegant. They are wild and unruly, veering off in odd directions, leaning on each other or twisting into odd shapes and deformations as a result of a winter with heavy snow, or as a trick in the everlasting competition to gain the most sunlight. Some trees have fallen, thin ones, overgrown with moss, forming hazards in the middle of the path because you might not see it and subsequently trip, or thicker ones, some with a diameter close to one of Arthur's thighs, very visible as their roots poke up from the ground, spreading far wider than he would have thought necessary. But then, the soil is not as rich as it used to be. In a real forest, dead trees are allowed to stay standing until they fall like this, or sag together and collapse in on themselves with rot, or bend and lean on the younger, stronger generation.

 

Since the act of resistance in the vicinity of Camelot has picked up, Arthur Pendragon has met many people he would never expect to befriend. He has met magicians, druids, workmen, hunters. His father, or perhaps it was one of his friends, would on occasion arrange a shooting of birds, but they would be birds that professionals had already killed, reanimated by engineers to fly only within a set area. Easy targets that were thrown away when the fun was over. Here, hunting is difficult, and the reward is food. Here, birds are free, and they sing. There's one sat on the branch of a birch tree at this very moment, chirping, before it spreads its wings and flies off, quickly exiting Arthur's field of vision. He would turn his head, but his neck doesn't agree. Actually, it's fine. The view from here is compelling enough.

 

His head is surrounded by grass, and a couple of flowers also peer down at him. It's a nice place to be lying down, he can feel the clothes on his back soaking with water and mud and probably blood as well, but he is far beyond caring. The flowers are so beautiful close up, their petals are torn and uneven and they are _realer_ than anything else in the world. A branch that has somehow been torn off a tree is towering over him, obscuring the right side of his peripheral vision. From that to one of the flowers, an abandoned spider's web stretches. It is filled with drops of water sparkling in the sunlight, an awe-inspiring sight and a result of the same rain that is seeping into his own trainers. His throat does something that is the closest he can come to laughing as he remembers Merlin bending to study a web almost as littered with mosquitoes as this one is with water droplets.

"Now then, Mr. Spider, you seem to be doing great. Oh, look, a few mechanical ones, too! Well done on defying the enemy reconnaissance there, comrade. Keep up the good work."

Arthur wasn't very familiar with the workings of magic at that point, so he was impressed that Merlin could talk to spiders, on top of everything else. And Merlin had laughed, the sound so heavenly that Arthur forgot to be annoyed or embarrassed that he had made himself look stupid, choosing instead to be thrilled that he'd made Merlin happy.

"I can talk to spiders," Merlin said, and kissed him, "But I'm afraid they don't understand any of it at all. They certainly never answer."

 

Just the memory makes Arthur smile drowsily. The ground he is lying on is soft, well, to the extent that he can feel it, and he doesn't think he'd mind falling asleep here, with Merlin on his mind. Merlin, who is blissfully _safe_. He was so worried for a moment, when it all seemed to be going wrong, getting out of hand, when the enemy appeared. The people he had once considered his brothers in arms. He feared for everything then, for the people he was with, for the mission that was interrupted, for the safety of their cause, but mostly Merlin. He can never stop worrying about that damned man. Well, he isn't so worried now. Now, the danger is over, and he can relax into the soft grass, watching the treetops sway above, let the smile linger on his face as he feels a mosquito, a real one, not a camera, saunter across his cheek. He just can't bring himself to lift an arm and swat it away. The sky is so blue. It's almost unbelievable. He has never seen a more beautiful day. 

 

Drops of water rain down on him as a tree is shaken by an approaching movement. He can see Merlin's face now, and it's not just in his mind's eye anymore. Merlin is really there, his Merlin, safe and real and unharmed. The only thing more beautiful than what he was already seeing. The face above him looks so worried, so upset, and he wants to tell him to relax, everything is fine now. But something tells him not to waste energy on the words. He is tired. Merlin is saying something, and Arthur realises it's his name, over and over. It is a bit difficult to hear, the peaceful silence and the rustling of the breeze seem to deafen everything else. Merlin's hands stroke his face as his lips read "Arthur, Arthur," as if he cannot remember any other words. His face is so full of emotions that Arthur finds it difficult to make sense of it, and his eyes seem moist with tears. Arthur smiles again, and Merlin's face makes an odd convulsion, almost like sob, though there is nothing to be sobbing about.

Arthur draws his breath, and he can feel the air as it enters, feel all its movements down to his lungs, and he presses it out again, forming words, hoping they will be audible even though he himself seems to have lost the ability to hear.

"I love you," he chokes out, and that exertion proves great enough to drain him. He is still smiling as darkness envelops him.


End file.
